The Worst Fic Ever Written
by screenings
Summary: Once upon a time I promised a bad quality fic to everyone who reblogged a post on tumblr. On the advent of 210K reblogs of that post, I have promised in turn a 210K word fic of the poorest quality I can manage. So here it is. I can promise ducks, long rants about architecture, and Kevin Tran falling in love with a Dalek. Nothing has been edited. Everything is bad. Good luck.
1. Chapter 1

It was a beautiful day in New York. The day couldn't have been more beautiful if it had been designed by an artist. Like a Monet painting, except imagine less water lilies and more blood, explosions and terrified screaming.

It wasn't a good day, let's not make that mistake. Just a really nice one. The skies were clear and the sun was shining and everything. It's just that there was a lot of death and destruction going on.

Monet would probably have been on crack if he had painted this scene. Especially because of the spaceships.

I forgot to mention that bit. There were spaceships. They were shooting people. A lot of people were screaming.

Except for the ducks in Central Park- they weren't screaming. In fact, they were fairly sedate. Ducks have no capacity to understand the ramifications of an alien invasion, and as such they were having quite a nice day. That one douchebag mallard had gone off to another pond in Flushing Meadows, and the bread dropped by fleeing New York citizens was delicious.

But this is not a story about the ducks in Central Park, although I assure you they are fascinating, and their family politics rival Game of Thrones in terms of sheer duck cruelty towards each other. In fact, their family politics mirrored Game of Thrones almost exactly. This was not chance- a passing demonic being had gotten bored one day and reprogrammed the ducks to behave exactly like their fictional counterparts. Sometimes demons misuse their abilities. Especially the nerd ones. Fucking nerd demons.

In any case. There was an alien invasion, which usually happens during a day of terrible weather- when all hope is lost because of the rather awful thunderstorm going on, and the added stress of an alien invasion just tips the citizens over the edge and makes them perfect for ruling over. Today, however, the Dalek Emperor had not checked the weather forecast for New York.

"YOU TOLD ME IT WOULD BE OV-ER-CAST!" The Dalek Emperor roared mechanically at his underlings. They bleeped and blooped nervously under their giant leader's gaze. "THIS IS NOT IN-VA-SION WEATHER!"

For a few seconds, there was silence in the confines of the vaulted-ceiling spaceship. Why did the spaceship have vaulted ceilings? Because I'm telling this story and in this story Daleks are surprisingly adept architects with a flair for Baroque-style spaceships. Don't like it? Then go home and tell your own bloody story about Dalek spaceships where they prefer Romanesque architecture. My Daleks are just more cultured than yours.

Now. There was silence in the artfully designed spaceship. For a few seconds, everyone processed their answers in silence. Then a single Dalek trundled forward to address its Emperor.

"THE WEATHER IS NOT IMP-OR-TANT TO OUR INVASION. WE HAD A GREAT TIME AND WE SUB-JUD-GATED A RACE, AND THAT IS MOST IMP-OR-TANT."

Once more, silence reigned in the architecturally challenging Dalek mothership. The Emperor looked down at the Dalek with as much disdain as a giant octopus-monster could manifest in its expression.

"_NOT IMP-OR-TANT?!_" It roared in the exact same tone and decibel level it had been using before. "_WE HAVE AN AUDIT ON SUN-DAY! IF WE DO NOT CARRY OUT THIS INVASION WITH THE METH-OD WE HAVE BEEN TOLD TO USE BY SENIOR MAN-AGE-MENT, WE WILL NOT PASS WITH AN 'OUTSTANDING' MERIT AND WILL BE RE-MOVED OF OUR PARKING PRI-VIL-EGES! WE'LL HAVE TO GIVE THEM TO THOSE DOUCHE-BAGS IN QUAD-RANT GAMMA!"_

There was some awkward shuffle-rolling and whirring across the spaceship. Nobody wanted to give their parking spaces to the Quadrant Gamma douchebags- they all wore sunglasses even though Daleks don't have the necessary eyes to wear them.

"WHAT IS YOUR NAME, DA-LEK?" The Emperor continued to yell in the exact same way as it always did, glaring down at its tiny subordinate.

"I AM DA-LEK JAST, OF THE CULT OF SKARO." Dalek Jast replied with a tremor in his voice.

"AREN'T YOU DEAD?" The Emperor asked.

"IT WAS EX-PED-IENT TO THE PLOT TO BRING ME BACK," Jast explained.

"DA-LEK JAST," The Emperor proclaimed, "AS PUN-ISH-MENT FOR QUESTIONING MY METHODS AND POT-EN-TIALLY COSTING US OUR PARKING SPACES, YOU ARE BANISHED TO EARTH, TO RULE OUR NEW SUB-JECTS IN OUR STEAD."

"NO!" Jast wailed. "I JUST PAID OFF MY MORTGAGE ON SKARO!"

But it was too late- the Dalek Emperor teleported Dalek Jast onto the earth below, and the Dalek ships retreated into the starry skies.

That's when he saw them.

They were surrounding a poorly designed vehicle- something that had clearly been created in an era where engine size was valued over a streamlined design and actual _taste, _for god's sake, it looked like someone had stapled together a couple sheets of scrap metal around a motor. There were four of them- one tall, with glorious moose hair, one shorter, with ridiculous sticky-up hair, one shorter still with a big stupid trenchcoat on, and one-

Jast did a double-take with his eyestalk at the last one. The shortest of the group, with the darkest, most beautiful hair, and the most glorious Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-Shirt. Also a tablet in a papoose around his shoulders, but Jast wouldn't judge.

He was perfect.

"HUMANS!" He yelled to the group- they straightened their backs and turned to face him.

"Wow, dude," the one with the ridiculous sticky-up hair said, "Do you think, dude, we should shoot it, dude?"

The tallest flicked his fabulous moosey tresses back. "Fine, but if the recoil musses up my hair, we stop."

And so, three of them began to shoot Jast, which naturally did nothing. But the shortest did not. The perfect one did not. Jast began to advance on them.

"I CHOOSE YOU," Jast called to his soulmate. The one in the dumb trenchcoat stopped shooting and tilted his head.

"Me?" He asked in a ridiculous low voice. Honestly, nobody has that low a voice. He puts it on. He must do.

"NO, YOU FUCKING IDIOT," Jast replied. "YOU."

"Me, dude?" Asked the dumb sticky-up hair guy in a fairly stupidly low voice.

"NO, FUCK OFF AND USE LESS HAIR GEL. YOU."

"Me-" started the moose guy.

"WE'VE EXHAUSTED THIS JOKE, SHUT THE HELL UP."

The perfect one stood in the wind just right to have a succession of cherry blossom petals blow past him and ruffle his perfect hair.

"Me?" He asked, adjusting his papoose so his perfect tablet was more on show.

"YOU. YOU ARE GOING TO BE MINE. TAKE ME TO YOUR HOME, PATHETIC PERFECT MEATBAG."

And so Kevin Tran (for that was what he was called) strapped Dalek Jast to the top of the poorly designed car and they went to their new home.

But the adventure had only just begun.

* * *

><p>Sam stared at him for a second.<p>

"DEAN!" He yelled. "YOUR TURN TO BE ON INTERROGATION DUTY!"

"What? Didn't like the story?" Crowley asked, a sly smile on his face as he was handed back his crayon and paper across the devil's trap.

Kevin looked only confused. "Why was I going out with a Dalek?"

Sam looked back at Crowley. "And what was with your obsession with my hair?"

Castiel looked thoughtfully into the distance. "Do ducks really have Machiavellian family relations?"

Crowley shrugged. "That's the beauty of my writing- you can question it yourself, long after it's finished."

"Oh, we'll be questioning it alright," Sam answered. "Question why it's so shit."

"That's it, Dean will be getting the favourable point of view next chapter, Moose," Crowley replied, pointing at him furiously with his favourite blue crayon.

Sam just gave him a long stare and walked out. Kevin did the same.

Castiel paused before he walked out and turned to Crowley.

"Daleks would prefer Romanesque architecture. It's more practical."

And with that, he walked out.

Crowley pouted and sat down to write more of his masterpiece.

"Nobody understands my genius," he mumbled as he began writing out his magnum opus in crayon.

* * *

><p><em>Dear god. I am so sorry. This isn't even funny. Why is Crowley writing this? Why are Daleks so enamoured of the Baroque style despite its overly intricate style that demands a higher price for manufacture? What conditioner does Sam use? <em>

_All these questions probably won't be answered. I don't even know what's happening. Next chapter will probably be as bad as this._

_I'm not even drunk._


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: One time I ate a whole cantaloupe for breakfast

* * *

><p>So there they were, all sitting in the bunker- except for Dalek Jast, who had no legs so couldn't sit down. There was Rocky Winchester, whose hair was considerably less dumb than in the previous chapter, and Bullwinkle Winchester, whose moosey hair had suddenly become limp and in desperate need of leave-in conditioner. Also his face was stupid. That's what I said. Sam Winchester has a stupid face. This is an objective point of view, so everything said in this point of view is true. Sam's face is really fucking dumb.<p>

Opposite them was Kevin Tran, who was cradling his tablet gently against his body, and Dalek Jast, who was flailing on the inside (quite literally) but still on the outside- like a caramel-filled chocolate being heated to boiling point.

And at the head of the table was Flappy McTrenchcoat, squinting at everyone like he should've gone to Specsavers. Flappy regarded Dalek Jast with quiet curiosity, somewhat ruined by his continual humming under his breath and the occasional 'hm' that he would breathe out. After an hour or two of listening to Castiel maintain a single 'hm' without stopping for breath, the moosier and less handsome of the two brothers spoke up.

"So who are you and why do you want to be in a relationship with Kevin? I should really get rid of my huge sideburns because they're dumb, like my face." Moose asked with pure honesty in his voice.

"Yeah, dude, like, dude, what's the skinny?" Squirrel questioned, leaning back in his chair.

"I AM DALEK JAST OF THE PLANET SKARO. I HAVE COME TO BE WITH KEVIN BECAUSE HE IS PERFECT." Jast looked at his beloved as Kevin continued to gently croon to his tablet. "AND HIS HAIR SMELLS LIKE COCONUTS."

"He must be borrowing my conditioner," Moose mused, rubbing a thumb pensively over his dumb face.

"THEN THIS IS NOT A GOOD THING, BECAUSE YOUR CONDITIONER IS STUPID AND YOU'RE STUPID."

Sam began to cry. Flappy McTrenchcoat slapped him.

"So, dude," Squirrel continued, ignoring his brother's wails of pain and upset, "Are you gonna be staying here with Kevin? Like- _with Kevin in his bed_ here with Kevin?"

"WHY DO YOU CARE?" Dalek Jast asked him.

Squirrel shrugged. "I just want to know, y'know dude? Like, you sound like a male kinda dalek, and Kevin's a male kinda male, and…"

Dalek Jast stared at him. Well, he always stared, because Daleks don't have any eyelids, but this time it was clear that if Jast had eyelids, he would not be using them.

"WHY DO YOU CARE?" Jast asked again, but with a fresh questioning tone to his voice, which was strange as his voice sounded exactly the same as before.

The Winchester shrugged and leaned back. "Well, if you two are going to be together, in Kevin's bed together, you two… male beings… that means male sexytimes?"

Dalek Jast sounded unimpressed. "YES." Kevin spluttered on a drink he had not previously had but is now important to this sentence for him to have.

Dean leaned in, glancing conspiratorially at Flappy McTrenchcoat before continuing. "What's that like?"

This time, both Flappy and his still-sobbing brother slapped Dean. Dean began to cry as well.

Jast looked at the two sobbing humans and the embarrassed-looking angel. "IS THERE ANYONE COOL I CAN SPEAK TO?" Jast questioned.

Then some badass music started playing and the lighting turned low as a spotlight roamed the room, finally settling on a set of double doors in the bunker. They swung open, slamming against the walls, as a lone and cool figure emerged from them.

"Hello, boys," A suave and beautiful voice said. Everyone who was not previously crying now started crying from the beauty of the figure's voice and his general badassery.

"WHO ARE YOU?" Jast asked through tears it previously had not been able to produce.

"I'm Crowley," the beautiful voice continued. Crowley emerged from the spotlight and the lights came back up again, a theatrical device proclaiming the return to normality in the scene- if normality can ever truly be achieved with such beauty and grace in the room. Which it can't. Crowley took off his cool sunglasses and regarded Dalek Jast. "King of Hell and also love."

"WOW. IF I WAS NOT GOING OUT WITH KEVIN I WOULD SO TAP THAT." Dalek Jast replied.

"We would all tap that." Everyone chorused in tandem through their tears. "He's so cool and beautiful."

"Now, now," Crowley said modestly, accepting the kisses on the hand that each member of the room bestowed upon him, "You give me far too little credit."

* * *

><p>"No, stop there, man!"<p>

Crowley looked up from his latest chapter. "What?"

Dean looked disgusted. "Where are you even going with this? All you're doing is writing Sam and I as crying kids and you as- some sort of weirdo romantic hero! There's no plot! There's no actual story! Kevin hasn't even said anything and you said he was the main character!"

Crowley was silent as he regarded his neatly printed crayon lettering. Then he looked up at Dean.

"I can make Sam cry more, I suppose."

Dean stared at Crowley, pursing his lips.

"You didn't listen to anything I just said, did you."

"Plot, crying, romantic, etcetera," Crowley replied, picking up his crayon and twirling it in his fingers. "Shut up and let the master work."

"And spell his letters out loud," Dean groaned, wondering when his interrogation shift was over.

* * *

><p>"But enough of that," Crowley said, slapping everyone until they ceased kissing him and went back to their seats, "What's going on?"<p>

"I AM DALEK JAST. I HAVE COME TO RULE THIS EARTH AND WHILE DOING SO I HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE." Jast swivelled his head 180 degrees to stare at his beloved. Kevin continued to stroke his tablet where it was tied to his chest with ropes. He looked up.

"I'm his boyfriend!" And with that, Kevin looked down again and began offering a baby bottle to the tablet.

Sam whimpered from his seat. "Nobody wants to be my boyfriend."

"That's because you have stupid hair and a stupid face," Crowley informed him. Sam began to cry even louder.

Dean grinned. "Nobody wants to be my boyfriend, 'cause I'm super hetero straight."

Crowley looked at him archly. "You're the exact opposite of straight, Dean."

Dean shook his head rapidly enough to look like a dog trying to get dry. "Nuh-uh, 'cause Dean Winchester loves the ladies!"

"And the Cas." Crowley pointed out like a badass with cool sunglasses.

"What?"

Crowley stared at Dean. "You're literally the most lovesick person on this planet for Castiel."

Flappy McTrenchcoat nodded emphatically while Squirrel shook his head just as emphatically. "Dean Winchester loves the ladies!" Dean yelled, tears coming to his eyes.

Crowley took off his sunglasses and regarded Dean carefully. "Then kiss Castiel."

"What?" Both of them said, somewhat hopefully on Flappy's part.

"Kiss Castiel, and see what happens from there."

'Elephant Love Medley' began to play in the background. Dean and Castiel looked at each other.

"Dean Winchester loves the ladies," Dean mumbled as the two of them began to lean into each other.

The music reached a crescendo (Sam was fast-forwarding the tape to the end) as their lips became closer, and then-

* * *

><p>"Woah, woah, woah, what the hell?"<p>

Crowley looked up again from his writing, groaning dramatically. "What now?"

Dean gave Crowley the most disgusted look it was possible for him to give. "Why are you making Cas and I kiss?!"

Crowley shrugged. "If I can't make you do it in reality, I may as well speed along matters in fiction."

"Can't- but- Cas and I are just _friends, _Crowley!"

Crowley snorted. "Sure, sure, if you want to believe that."

"Believe that?! I think I know my relationship with Cas better than you do, you douche!"

Crowley swivelled in his chair to face away from Dean and continued to print out his chapter, smirking. Dean stood from the other side of the desk.

"That's it." He stalked across the room and snatched the crayon from Crowley's hands. "You lost your crayon privileges."

Crowley made a high-pitched noise and tried to get up from the chair, making grabby hands at the crayon. Dean held it up higher than Crowley can reach.

"No. You don't get it back until you promise to stop writing about me and Cas like that."

"But Deaaaaan!"

"And you lose your Kevin privileges too!" Dean called as he left the room.

"That's it, Sam gets the favourable image next chapter!"

"You took off your sunglasses twice in the chapter!" Dean yelled, slamming the door behind him and turning off the lights in Crowley's room.

Crowley paused, and looked down at the page in his hands, scanning it for a second.

"Know-it-all bitch," Crowley huffed, collecting together his writing reverently in the darkness.

* * *

><p>AN: I lied before. I've never eaten an entire cantaloupe for breakfast. I don't even know what one is. I just wrote four pages of this god-awful drivel someone please help me


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: You people reviewing are the only thing managing to get me to continue this drivel. So congrats to you all I guess. Pat yourselves on the back; or, if you are one of our alien overlords from Skaro, pat your mechanical/biological body with one or many of your slimy alien appendages. Congrats, kids. We're doing this together. Slowly, but whatever. It's a marathon, not a race.

Wait. A marathon is a kind of race.

Ignore me.

Warning: for copious swearing and the abuse of marzipan.

* * *

><p>So Dean and Castiel didn't get together, because apparently they're 'just friends'. But we know better. We know better, don't we, ladies and gentlemen and all? But, unfortunately, for now, they didn't get together. But they will.<p>

In any case, Rocky Winchester went off to sulk and spend a few hours crying because his delicate sense of masculinity had been challenged. Kevin went off with Dalek Jast to, most likely, ignore everyone and stroke his tablet. And that's not an innuendo. Probably. And Bullwinkle Winchester went off to cry, because that's what he does.

So Flipsy Trenchcoat McGee sat on his own at the table, contemplating trenchcoats and bees, and occasionally bees with trenchcoats on. Flipsy liked to imagine this- it felt like his own personal heaven, give or take a few burgers and pointy-haired men with silly southern accents. He whiled away a few hours thinking about bees in tiny trenchcoats, and had almost formulated a plan on how to produce said trenchcoats and persuade the bees to put them on when a distinct noise filled the room.

_Vworp. Vworp. Vworp._

A blue box slowly faded into the room, like a poor quality visual effect from the sixties that nobody had the heart to change. Featherface Winchester looked at it contemplatively and did absolutely nothing else.

The door of the blue box opened, and an elderly man poked his head out of the frame.

"What the fuckity fuckin' bullshit is this place?" A rapid-fire Scottish accent filled the room. The door opened wide, and the Scots man strode approximately half a metre before swearing and walking straight back into the box.

Unfortunately, their box had materialised in the exact centre of a table, and as such they were stuck. The door was directly in front of Floppy-hair-squinty-eye's seat at the table, and he had a perfect view of the box's inhabitants as the second, a young woman with a cardigan and a look of suffering, walked out and promptly into the table the same as the elderly man before her.

"Ow!" The young woman yelped, clutching her hip where she had bruised it.

"Stop larking about, you fucking soap-titted wanker, and get back in the fucking box!" Screamed the echoed Scotsman from inside the box.

"_You've_ got soapy tits, you old bastard!" The young woman screeched in fond response, sticking up two fingers at the man and walking back into the box. It promptly faded back out of existence, leaving a square hole in the table.

Floppy looked at the empty square with a mix of curiosity and complete indifference.

The box faded into the room again, albeit this time on top of the table. The elderly man walked out into thin air, collapsed on the floor, and stood up again, pointing between Flappy and the box.

"Get the fuck in, or fuck the fuck off!" He yelled. Flipsy tilted his head, shrugged, and stood up, walking obediently onto the table and into the box.

"Now," The Scotsman said, "We're going to have a good fucking adventure, and you're not going to wank it up, or you're more pointless than a marzipan fuckin' dildo!"

Flipsy tilted his head further, setting it at a ninety-degree angle against his shoulder. "What is the prescribed point of a marzipan dildo?"

"Your fucking mum, you wanker, now shut the door and get ready for fuckin' fun!"

The woman in the cardigan nodded vigorously, before giving Featherface a polite smile, introducing herself as Clara, and welcoming him by threatening to rip his balls off and paint eyes on them if he became the Doctor's favourite.

And thus a time-travelling trio was made.

* * *

><p>"Where are we now?" Feathers asked.<p>

"Up your arse." The Doctor replied solemnly, observing a screen thoughtfully.

In the background, Clara was calling her boyfriend, Donny Rosé- the Doctor had helpfully explained how Donny was Clara's way of coping with a recent death. That hadn't been his exact wording- he had given an explanation closer to the lines of "the bitch just doesn't stop getting through them and killing them off". Clara responded with a wordless two-fingered salute. Floppy responded by wondering if she and Sam would make a good couple.

"Like I give a fuck, now get outside and see if the air's poisonous," the Doctor responded, throwing several pieces of equipment at Featherarse until he went outside.

Flipsy stood there, staring in what could conceivably be interpreted as shock unless you knew his habits of not blinking for several hours. A fax machine followed him out the box's door, bouncing off his thick skull, and then the Doctor emerged.

"Well? Are you fuckin' dead?" The Doctor asked, before following the gaze of Flipflop to the being standing in front of them.

"That is a very anatomically incorrect figure," Flubber said, observing the angelic statue as it stood frozen in place.

The Doctor stood there in silence for a few moments.

"Yup! He's fuckin' dead," The Doctor announced, striding straight back into the box. A muffled "What?" could be heard from within it, followed promptly after with "Dead as your fuckin' brain!" Then a whirr of spaceship engines, and Fashizzle was left alone, locking eyes with the angelic statue.

"I have a much cooler outfit than you." Flopsy announced, before curtly looking away and walking off.

The angel, upset at how its dress had been insulted and busily crying profusely, didn't even have the heart to kill Froufrou as he walked away.

* * *

><p>AN: I'd say I was running out of nicknames for Fabfeathers, but I'd be lying.

Think of your fave character.

_No, you're wrong._ Think of the _correct_ fave character.

_Good._ Now imagine that fave character being taken hostage and repeatedly beaten at Mario Kart.

They're crying now. Do you want them to cry? No? Then review. _Do it now_


	4. Chapter 4

Theb in thhe basemen t of the hell or something a archangel lived with his asshole big anghangel brother and thhis loserkid. Who rmemebers his name. Who cares. The point is the younger archbakel was wthe sexiest and mos t beautiul

"Hears any good musical lately" says the loserkid with his loser voice. He disrespected the beautiful archanel with his loser voice so Luci the sexy slapppwd him.

"I do not hear music I live the music. U dont understand music like I do. You just dont ge)t it man" says the bridgeangel. "Its aborit more than he sounds it's vthe FEELINGS u get"

"I do not get"

"That si becaus giant loser"w said rhe sexi lucifer and loser adam with his loser face started crying agin. what a losser. haa losser sounds like tosser. that's a british swearwor

luci use his sex power to drop the nedle on hjis record playa. It played the most hipster song wver recorded. The vinyl was made of beard and niche cofee an d it was a really shrit song but i5's aboht the FELLS u hear. lyci jammed to ghe cool tunes unil his loser nerd brotjer turnned up.

"wOW LUCII TURB IT DOWN" loser brother screams

"TIRN DOWN FOR WHA" sCream lci in return and he starst air guitaring louder. the michal scream but it was too late. luci had achieved ultimate sexi and michael explode from the beaity. also the loser adam provably exploded whp cares

* * *

><p>Sam stares in horror at the letter he had found on his pillow. It was folded, in a scrupulously neat copperplate writing- it's singed on one end, and has a note on the front saying "From the cage to Sam Winchester xoxo P.S. still want to ride u :) Love Luci."<p>

Sam stares in unbridled horror at the note. He has a number of questions, ranging from how Lucifer had got this from the pit to how he knew where he lived.

Mostly, however, he has one question only.

"CROWLEY!" Sam yells, crumpling the note in his now-balled fist. "DID YOU MAKE HIM SEND THIS?!"

A low voice emanates from the bowels of the bunker, faint but just audible from where Sam stands. "You can't make art, just encourage it!"

"Art-" Sam opens the door of his bedroom and outright screams into the bunker. "HE MISSPELT HIS OWN NAME SIX TIMES OVER!"

"JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN'T APPRECIATE HELL'S AESTHETIC DOESN'T MEAN IT ISN'T THERE, MOOSE!"

"SHUT UP AND CRAYON YOUR NOVEL, FUCKING STEPHEN FUCKING KING!"

"I WOULD IF I HAD ANY _CRAYONS_, FASCIST!"

Dean looks out of his bedroom door.

"Should I-"

Sam stuffs the semi-love letter into his jeans pocket. "Fuck off, Dean."

Dean raises his hands in surrender. "Alright, just take your lovebird argument somewhere else." He disappears back into his bedroom. Sam huffs and does the same.

* * *

><p>Deep in the earth, locked in hell's deepest prison cell, Lucifer pens his latest masterpiece.<p>

"Dude, can you stop reading it out loud?" Adam groans.

"I will have to agree with the human, this is getting extremely unpleasant, Lucifer." Michael agrees solemnly.

Lucifer looks up from where he's lying on the ground and stops swinging his legs up and down. "Man, you guys just don't _get_ it."

"Get brain damage?" Adam groans, artfully ducking the pen thrown at him with supernatural strength.

"I regret being trapped with you both immensely." Michael sighs.

"Shut up and put on my records, Mike."

* * *

><p><em>OK explanation time<em>

_I've not been well recently and I decided that wouldn't stop me writing no matter what. So, ill and unable to sleep at 3am, I decided to write something._

_The first piece of writing is your case study why you should just stop writing when you're ill and it's the middle of the night. I expect you all to revise the subject there will be a test_


	5. Chapter 5

Meanwhile, two men sat in a business meeting at lunch. One, younger and yet more wearied, pushed ash-blonde hair from his forehead. He was wearing a centurion's outfit. Passers-by were either taking selfies or attempting to attach gum to his armour, and he hadn't noticed either. The other, older and dressed soberly, twirled an ebony walking-stick thoughtfully. The stick repeatedly hit several children running by, who cried until they saw the elderly man's face.

Then they cried harder.

"I assume you've heard the news," the elderly man intoned.

"Yeah, I have." The centurion sighed and picked at his food absently. "The invasion, New York's in ashes, all of it."

"Not all."

The centurion looked up. "What?"

The older man took a moment to answer, as he was contemplatively sucking on a milkshake. The centurion waited as the sucking sound permeated the relative silence of the restaurant.

At length, the man set down his milkshake. "While it is of little consequence to me, one of the fleet of Daleks unexpectedly left the group and returned to Earth after the retreat."

The centurion started choking on his fries. The elderly man sighed, steepling his fingers and observing the choking man for a few long seconds. The centurion reached out abortively for the older man and collapsed onto the floor, trying to gasp for breath.

A long moment passed.

The centurion shot up from under the table and gasped for breath, massaging his throat.

The elder man rolled his eyes. "And here I was believing you might actually die this time."

The centurion weakly picked up a chip and absently threw it at his dinner partner. "Sod off, I nearly choked to death there. Give me a break."

The man surveyed the chip that landed near his elbow with the same condescension one might reserve for a rather disgusting bug.

"Really, now, Rory. I understand you're mortal, but try to understand we are in a respectable eating establishment."

Rory looked around him incredulously. A Ronald McDonald balloon sailed through the air as a child launched it from its high chair.

"If you say so." He got back onto his seat. "Now, what's that about the rogue Dalek, Death?"

Death took a quick bite of his McNuggets before expounding on the Earth's fate by space aliens.

"It seems to have been sent to ensure the world's conquer. That in of itself wouldn't be of consequence to me, I have seen many such instances in my lifetime, but- there were complications."

"Complications?"

"It appears- he fell in love."

Rory snorted. "Love? _Really_?"

Death raised an eyebrow. "Is that so unbelievable? Many creatures may find capacity to love, and while a Dalek is not typically one of them there are many aberrations in this universe. You of all people would understand this."

Rory grinned faintly. "Yeah, but I'm wondering how you'd know love when you saw it."

Death, for the first time, seemed personally affronted. Rory's burger spontaneously desiccated and turned to dust.

"I am older than you can comprehend, Rory. I have and do know love."

"To- a rock? A really old tree?" Rory wasn't one for jest, but in this moment he pushed his relationship with the personification of destruction itself.

Death pursed his lips. "To a man, and I cannot see it being your business."

Rory seemed honestly interested in this development. "What's his name?"

Death was silent as the grave.

Rory leaned in with interest, grabbing up Death's milkshake and taking a quick drink. "Death... Come on. I'm trustworthy. I'll probably be dead again soon enough anyway."

Death leant back and permitted a tiny, love-struck smile. "Wade."

Rory clapped his hands excitedly. "Oh my god! Tell me _everything_. Is he dreamy?"

And for this moment, the matter of concern to the Earth's safety was forgotten in this meeting of presumably immortal beings of millenia in age, in favour of trading tips on how best to deal with a crush.

* * *

><p>"Thanks for the crayons, Moose." Crowley salutes Sam with a cocky grin.<p>

Sam looks suspiciously at the new sheafs of paper Crowley has already produced in the short hours since his crayon privileges were returned to him.

"Remember the deal, Crowley."

"I got it, I got it. No gently persuading certain archangels to pursue their hobby in creative writing, I heard you the first time." Crowley seems disinterested in the conversation, engrossed as he is with crayoning new sheets of writing.

Sam picks up a sheet and reads a few lines.

"...Death?"

Crowley shrugs. "Subplots. Can't have it all being you and your bloody mane, Bullwinkle, it takes up enough space as it is."

Sam brushes back his hair defensively, which does nothing for defending his point against Crowley.

"Eventually you're going to have to do something around here, Crowley. You're not here to try for the Booker Prize." Sam leans in dangerously onto the table Crowley is chained to. "If you don't start using that paper for writing the names of demons and their vessels, we're going to find a better way of using these crayons than just /giving them to you."

Crowley smirks. "Sounds kinky. Love to give it a go, darling."

Sam grunts and strides from the room, before pausing and looking back.

"The subplot's a bit better. Less crying is good."

Crowley looks up in surprise at Sam, but the door is already swinging shut and the demon is left in darkness with paper and crayon.

* * *

><p><em>How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?<em>

_Answer: Given their reticence when confronted with humanity, their newfound ability to assist humanity in wood chucking causes an existential crisis._

_..Listen, when I said this wasn't edited I really meant it._


End file.
